


The spectre and the statue

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Seine, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23157703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: Two nights spent in a carriage.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	The spectre and the statue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tfwlawyers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwlawyers/gifts).

> I started writing this when [@polygondust](https://twitter.com/polygonndust) came to see the stage show with me back in February based on some art she was BLESSING me with. So this one goes out to you Claire, sorry for making your lovely idea horny :(

Horseshoes fell harsh on the cobblestone street, almost demure echoes of the gunshots filling the air hours prior. The Parisian night was brisk, the heat and sweat of the summer day finally evaporated in the darkness. It seemed everything that day had gone, disappearing slowly but steadily, like ice melting and being drawn up like steam. Bodies were plucked from the ground, barricades dismantled, but the stench of men and gunpowder still hung ever so slightly in the air.

More evident was the smell that pervaded the carriage trailing behind that steadfast horse. Of any scent, blood and human waste are unmistakable. These were the prevailing assault on the senses confined to the cabin. There were three figures in that fiacre, silent as a congregation in prayer. One sat on the rear seat, though to describe the position as sitting was generous. His head hung limply on his neck, jostled as the carriage bumped and swayed. On the opposite bench were the other two men. Both figures were difficult to distinguish, dark as it was and shadowed as they were.

Jean Valjean was cloaked in filth. The sewer clung to him, soaked through his clothes and plastered his skin in an impenetrable layer. It was a wretched mask of the worst of humanity, concealing anything of the gentleman underneath. The only one who could hope to peer through it was the man directly to his left.

Javert would not look. He stared directly ahead, still as granite, cold as ice. His shoulder hit Valjean’s as the carriage wheels navigated the hills and valleys of the street, sending their angles colliding in sudden fits. Valjean, had his mind been more present, would have thought to recoil at the contact between their shoulders, their knees. Even so, his soul felt weary enough that he allowed it, uncaring of the spread of grime onto the seat and on Javert’s person. He could find not the strength to resist or the pride to apologize. Instead he too stared blankly ahead, watching the slowing trickle of blood from the boy’s head dry atop the caked layers of rusting red painting his face. It felt as if he were still trapped in the sewers, walls closing hopelessly in on him in every direction.

Perhaps Valjean was not sitting there after all. Perhaps the man was nothing more than a ghost set on haunting the inspector. Perhaps it was the opposite, that the policeman was an illusion, but no. Javert was all too solid, an undeniable statue of a man who, despite his ardent desires, could not dissipate into the night. A casting would sooner crumble, only under the intense assault of the sculptor’s hammer, or the slow agony of the wear and tear of time.

However, there was terror from another source, a stirring inside him, threatening to burst out in some treacherous act of self-destruction. And so, he stayed motionless as he could, as a statue was meant to, and silently prayed the spectre beside him would fade into the moonlight. It did not. He looked ahead and prayed the corpse might disappear with it. It did not.

The space between them was cavernous. This was, of course, only in a manner of speaking, for their elbows crashed together at odd intervals as the carriage passed over another and another bump in the road. But still, there was some uncrossable gap between them; there always was. Even as they sat, closer than Javert had come to any other body, he felt as though any attempt to find a bridge between them would lead to some inescapable, fatal fall. He stood at its precipice with trepidation in his heart. A stone shaking, greenery treacherously sprouting in its increasing cracks.

The carriage lurched to a halt. They had arrived at the boy’s house.

* * *

When they departed from Pontmercy’s house, it had begun to snow.

Valjean looked through the window with wonder at the fat flakes falling heavily onto the street. It was dark outside, but light from the occasional street lamp was enough to illuminate the clumps of white in an orange glow. There was a fair amount on the streets, for it had started perhaps an hour before during their dinner with Cosette and the grandchildren. Luckily, they had obtained a covered carriage to shield them from the wet and, at the same time, afford them privacy.

Snow was far from Javert’s mind, Valjean’s face eclipsing all else. He sat next to him rather than across, for Valjean had insisted they find the space together on one side. Valjean held his hand, tracing lightly over and around his gloved knuckles with his thumb.

Javert could only look beside him. Valjean’s turned profile was delicate, the curve of his cheek meeting his lips in an inviting display. It was dusted with a slight pink from the cold and the glasses of wine, stark against the white of his beard. As the carriage jostled, his equally white curls bounced slightly, their edges illuminated by the orange light outside. His eyelashes were dark and long as they blinked slowly, taking in the spectacle outside the safe haven of the cabin. Everything in his posture spoke to quiet contentment; his shoulders were relaxed, his breathing low and even. Javert cursed himself in that moment, remembering the night he could not bear to look at Valjean, the wasted years that he kept his eyes averted from the truth of this man.

With little restraint, Javert let out a sigh at the tender motion of Valjean’s thumb. Valjean started somewhat and gripped his hand, turning away from the window. His eyes were wide, dark pools in the low light of the carriage. The corners of his mouth began to turn upward, the beginning of a smile liable to turn Javert to nothing more than liquid. Something of the alcohol running through him urged him to take it himself, to swallow it, claim it as his own for the night. Even in the tight space of the seat, they were not nearly close enough.

Javert let go of Valjean’s hand to wrap his arm around him, grabbing a fistful of Valjean’s curls. There was a small gasp before he pressed a kiss to Valjean’s cheek, chaste and sweet. He responded with a contented sigh, surely expecting the affection to end there until they returned to the house where more privacy was afforded. With the wine and the thrill of Valjean’s hitched breath, Javert had no such patience.

Smiling wolfishly to himself, Javert preyed upon his jaw with kisses, taking time to adorn each bit of skin with his lips and the smallest hint of teeth. Valjean hummed appreciatively, enjoying the attention. It was not long ago that Valjean might recoil from such brazen displays of love, that he would deny himself happiness. No longer.

He made his way up to the end of his jaw, nuzzling at the softest parts of the edge of his beard. With the cold weather, Valjean had let it grow the slightest bit longer, tickling all the more at his cheeks. Without warning, Javert quickly kissed at his ear, working around its crevices with small, loving pecks.

Valjean was descending into a fit of silent laughter, cognizant of the prying ears outside the carriage window. His smile burst out from him like sunlight shining through quick moving clouds, reaching toward an awaiting Javert. He wanted so fervently to drink that light, take it in and grow like a sunflower unfurling in one glorious rush of celebration. The wrinkles lining his face were shooting stars, leaving trails of light sprinkled across him, telltale signs of the years of both smiles and tears. In that moment he was solid, the furthest thing from a ghost one might imagine. This was a man full of life, and Javert was assured he would not forfeit it so easily. He acknowledged too that he was no longer the statue keeping guard. Javert was alive, his heart pounding joyously in his chest like a song.

Any laughter suddenly transfigured into breathless gasps as Javert’s tongue began to trail the edge of his ear, sucking at the lobe with intent. Valjean’s hand went to his mouth, attempting to quiet the outburst lest their driver or any passerby notice the noise. But the sounds of hooves falling on stone were loud, and there were hardly any pedestrians in the evening’s inclement weather.

At the quick movement of Valjean’s hand, Javert had stopped in his tracks, suddenly taking in their situation. He glanced out the window and recognized the intersection. They were twenty minutes or so from their house, far and isolated at the edge of the city. Valjean was breathing heavily under the cover of his gloved hand, giving Javert a look partway between wide-eyed warning and half-lidded desire.

Deliberately, and without taking his eyes from Valjean’s gaze, Javert removed his glove from his own hand and brought it to Valjean’s. Snaking through the barrier of Valjean’s hand, Javert slipped a finger into Valjean’s mouth. Javert looked at him intently, waiting for a rebuke that did not come. Valjean grabbed hold of his wrist and sucked at his fingers, one by one, until they were slick with the warmth of his mouth. The wetness was cold against the night air, and he could feel Valjean’s shaking breaths even more pronounced.

Reaching with his other hand, Javert went for Valjean’s trousers, but could not find purchase with the buttons as he was unable to tear his eyes away from Valjean. Staring at him with darkened eyes, Valjean guided his hand until his trousers were open. Slowly, Javert lowered his slick hand and wrapped it around Valjean’s half-hard prick. He let out the most quiet of gasps, feeling the exquisite burn of damp cold against hot skin. Valjean’s hand returned to his mouth, muffling any further sound.

Carefully, Javert ran his fingertips lightly up and down, coaxing him fully into hardness. As the first beads of wetness pooled at his head, Javert moved back to kiss at Valjean’s neck, nosing his way past his scarf and under his collar. He then took him in earnest with his hand. In an instant, Valjean bit back another cry against his leather glove, bucking into Javert’s grip. At the sound, Javert’s other hand traveled under Valjean’s coats to the small of his back where he traced soothing circles atop his waistcoat.

Staying hidden in the crook of Valjean’s neck, Javert started a leisurely pace, stroking Valjean’s length with care reserved for only their most intimate moments. Javert, changed as he was, still carried an air of brashness, of rigidity. In this, however, he was gentle as a vine, slowly but surely creeping its way upward and intertwining with latticework toward sunlight. Valjean deserved as much; the man deserved everything Javert could give. And what he would give! He would wrench all the tenderness from his dried out heart if it meant hearing those rare, angelic noises spill freely from Valjean’s mouth.

As Javert’s rhythm built ever slowly, Valjean grasped at Javert’s hair, sinking his fingers in tightly as his other hand held back a sob. Javert knew he was not moving nearly fast enough, taking his time despite the circumstance. Everything in his mind should have told him to make quick work of it, to avoid discovery. But then he would surely be deprived of the increasingly drawn out sounds coming from between Valjean’s fingers, the jolted breaths through his nose. He could feel the heat rising under his collar, his skin turning even more pink. Not from cold, but from the fire burning between his legs and stretching out through his every nerve. Javert took it in, drinking in the warmth with open, wet kisses.

When Javert closed a kiss with just a hint of teeth, Valjean’s back arched, biting his hand and letting out a stifled whimper. His prick was heavy in Javert’s hand, throbbing and wet. Giving the softest of comforting whispers, Javert cradled his cock and hastened his strokes. Valjean’s hand was tightly clasped around his mouth, his other grip on Javert’s hair taut enough to ignite a dull pain in Javert’s scalp. His breathing was coming in strained, hastening gasps as he canted his hips in time with Javert’s hand.

Shifting just enough to retrieve his handkerchief, Javert removed his face from Valjean’s neck enough to take in the sight of him. The man was quite nearly falling apart, his hair in disarray and his face flushed by far more than a glass of wine. A different sort of intoxication covered his features, slack but almost rapturously pained. Still, his hand covered his mouth, covering his soft lips and any beautiful sounds they might produce.

Keeping his moving hand steady and handkerchief at the ready, Javert pushed aside Valjean’s hand. Before he could let out another breath or let a cry slip, Javert kissed him. He swallowed Valjean’s stuttering moan as Javert felt spend covering his hand. Careful to catch any with the handkerchief, he guided Valjean through release, wringing every last sigh out of Valjean and devouring it.

Breaking apart, all either could do was stare breathlessly. Suddenly, a precious smile grew on Valjean’s face, abashed but wondrously satisfied. If his earlier smile was a sun breaking through the clouds, this was a sunset, turning all shades of unnamable colors before fading into blessed exhaustion. Javert could have wept.

Instead, he gently wiped the remaining mess from Valjean’s softening prick and tucked him back into his trousers. As soon as the last button was done, Valjean took Javert’s jaw in hand and brought him down in another kiss; it was loving, short, almost innocent if not for what had just transpired. As Javert sat and looked at Valjean, he felt a sense of tenderness overshadowing all else. There was nothing outside the carriage; all that existed was that cramped space so filled with love it could have become stifling. Yet, in spite of its tightness, it felt boundless.

At that very moment, Javert felt the momentum of the carriage slow, the clacking of hooves growing fewer and further between. Stealing a glance out the window, it dawned on him that they had arrived. He snapped his head down as Javert felt Valjean trace his fingers across the fabric of his strained trousers, feeling the arousal pressed to his thigh. The low exhale that escaped his mouth was partly pain and partly ecstasy.

The smile on Valjean’s face was another entirely from the first two. Mischievous, devilish even. Javert could feel his cheeks heat awfully as silence grew around them in the halted carriage. Attempting to control his breathing, he let Valjean take him by the hand out the carriage towards their house. For carriages were only temporary places, only means to an end. This though—Valjean’s warm hand so gently gripping his own—was as certain as the sun rising in the morning.


End file.
